His eyes were empty, shining. Little orbs of silvery teal glass that represented his sight.

His hair was made out of various shades of gold and brown string, his skin out of pale wood.

All of his joints were balls, and his clothes looked as though it was the first thing one picked out of the pile.

He was a doll.

But not just any doll. He was the Puppet-Maker's favorite doll. He was made to play the soft and exotic music of India; when wound up, the melodies of the sitar would drift out from his parted wooden lips.

The doll never spoke, of course. But he had lips just for the purpose of the sitar's sound.

He was the Puppet-Maker's favorite doll.

But he was just that.

A doll.

He could claim he didn't want to be a doll anymore, if he was capable of speaking. He could think and feel, and he'd developed feelings over the past twenty years for the Puppet-Maker.

He knew the Puppet-Maker had a name, and it was a beautiful name. But he needed to stay as alienated as possible from the Puppet-Maker.

He knew the Puppet-Maker had given him a name as well, but he was an object. He could think, but never move. He could hear, but never speak. He could feel, but never flinch.

He loved the Puppet-Maker with all of his nonexistent heart.

But he was a doll.

When the Puppet-Maker was but a child, and the doll had just barely been created the week prior, the two of them had watched Pinocchio.

It was the Puppet-Maker's favorite movie; he had always wanted one of his dolls to come to life.

The Puppet-Maker had expressed this to the doll, naieve to the fact the doll could hear him. The doll felt regretful, guilty, for something he could never fix.
He'd never come to life for the Puppet-Maker, because life was not a fairytale.

There were no talking dolls.

No blue fairies.

Just him.

Just a hunk of wood.

The Puppet-Maker never got his wish, and instead created a plethora of puppets and dolls for the young and old alike to purchase.

Everyone loved going to the Doll Shop. But nobody had ever seen the Puppet-Maker's favorite doll.

Everyone had heard of the doll, for the Puppet-Maker spoke of it's perfection almost constantly.

The Puppet-Maker loved the doll, yes. But not the same love that the doll felt for the Puppet-Maker.

He could never tell the Puppet-Maker.

He was just a doll.

One day, the Puppet-Maker angered an old witch by refusing to sell to her the doll. She had wandered into the back and demanded to have it.

She spat and cursed.
"May you be pained by knowing who loves you beyond all else, and by knowing you have ignored him for so long."
The Puppet-Maker shooed her out, and upon coming back into the back and gave a gasp of shock.

Where there was once a doll... was a boy. No, a man.

A man with golden brown hair styled into some hybrid of a mullet and a Mohawk. A man with teal eyes and tanned skin and ragged clothes.

The Puppet-Maker breathed out one word, realization hitting him along with guilt.

"Demyx."

The doll, no, man, that was previously looking at his hands looked up at the silverette.

He smiled, so glad to finally be able to move his lips.

"Zexion."